


Me Before You

by Blue_xO



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Also fluff, Baz is his patient, Daphne Grimm is a fabulous step-mother, M/M, Malcolm tries his best, Niall is a practicing male nurse btw, Simon hates it at first, Simon is a carer, also soft moments, angst here sorry, but have a box of tissues ready, but of course we know that doesn't last long
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:53:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23312665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_xO/pseuds/Blue_xO
Summary: “Clean it up Snow, that's what you're here for."-When Simon finds himself with a job as a caregiver, the last thing he expects is to have a stuck-up, snobby patient with a tongue far too sharp for his own good, and almost criminally good looks.He never expected days full of sad dark grey eyes and raven hair, sneers and jeers, breakdowns on rainy days and pure distaste for his existence.He never expected days full of laughter, crinkled grey eyes and fondly raised eyebrows. Days that provided false promises of better ones.He never expected the challenges, extreme highs and lows he'd experience in his time caring for said patient.He never expected to find... love.But most of all, he never expected the difficult decisions he would have to make along the way that would affect him in more ways than he could ever have imagined.AU based off the film "Me Before You".
Relationships: Daphne Grimm & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Daphne Grimm/Malcolm Grimm, Simon Snow/Agatha Wellbelove, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 32
Kudos: 83





	1. Simon says ‘I need a job’

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there,  
> So I originally posted this on fanfiction.net, but since this wonderful fandom is much more active on this site, I decided to share it here as well.
> 
> This fanfic is based entirely off the fabulous film, Me Before You (I highly recommend watching it. It's not necessary for this fic but it's brilliance is still something to be appreciated). I considered changing the title to something of my own, but I feel like this title contains so much meaning behind it. And if you find you don't quite understand it because you have not watched the film, you will as this fic progresses. Therefore I have decided to keep it, but I take no credit for it.
> 
> I won't blabber on anymore, so I'll leave you, reader, to enjoy this first chapter of what I hope will be a successful fic. Until the next update!

*******

_A perfect life._

_That was what he had._

_To wake every morning in a king-sized bed, lush white sheets strewn around him and a soft glow of pale morning light streaming through his much too large windows, beside a boy his heart swelled for. To wake looking forward to getting up and starting the day, to look forward to actually going to work. And then, when the day was over, to come back to his love once more._

_His time with him after dinner was spent either two ways; cuddled on the ivory couch, watching television in contentment, or, under those white sheets of their bed and not to reappear until several hours later._

_A perfect life._

_He awoke that morning, greeted by a caress of the soft lips of his love who lay beside him._

_"Stay, Baz."_

_"I can't, you know I have to get up."_

_"...Please?"_

_He rolled onto his side, lips stretched upwards in a grin as he peered down at the green eyed boy. Tobias was always a vision in the morning, a sort of fair god with tousled dark hair and half-lidded eyelids. "It's a half day for everyone at Pitch Industries, including me." He reached down, pressing a long kiss against plump lips. Pulling away, he found green eyes blinking back up at him, hopefully. "So, you'll be back early?"_

_"I will."_

_A perfect life._

_Suit on, one that complimented his tall stature and warm olive complexion, hair combed carelessly back with one hand, he left their deluxe apartment and stepped outside, greeted with pouring rain._

_He considered going back for an umbrella, but he was running late already and traffic was sure to be heavy. He had standards to keep up, and walking late into his own business was not a habit he would let stain his reputation._

_A phone call. With a glance to the expensive screen, bright grey eyes squinting, he found it to be important, and so answered it. He could multitask without effort; maneuvering his way through the busy streets of London, whilst talking calmly on the phone through the downpour and searching for a cab, was no problem._

_Or so he thought._

_A free taxi, waiting patiently on the other side of the street. He crossed, triumph in his step and satisfaction laced through his features, only a semi-wet suit to show for his troubles._

_Maybe he should have stayed in the apartment._

_Maybe he should have rolled around in the sheets with his pretty boy for a few minutes longer._

_Maybe he should have went back for that umbrella._

_Maybe he should've stopped, and bloody looked._

_These were the thoughts that raced through his mind as the sound of a deafening horn blew in his ears, pain engulfed every one of his senses and the world went black._

_A ruined life._

*******

**Simon**

"So, um, I need a job."

I should've worn a different scarf today. Or no scarf at all. The one I'm wearing now just happens to be the itchiest one I could've worn. And it's not even nice.

I blame Penny for making me wear it; she insisted that the weather today was to be awful, and I suppose she was right about that. Hard frost lined the tops of bushes and the sides of footpaths this morning when I left our apartment. I should've ignored her when it came to wearing the damned thing though.

I shouldn't listen to Penny sometimes. Though I suppose she was only looking out for me.

The job seeker looks at me dubiously through squinted eyes and half moon glasses. She looks like a proper stereotypical office worker; one that wears high collared, crisp, white shirts, ancient looking black pencil skirts and hair pulled back way too tightly in a bun. I can see a blue vein on her forehead straining painfully against the tightness of the pull.

She pushes her glasses up her nose delicately, bony fingers darting over the keyboard. "Looking for a job, or want a job?" she asks, her voice surprisingly deep. I swallow, confused with her question.

"Eh, both I suppose?" I titter nervously. Out of reflex I rub the back of my neck (sheepishly, as Penny does say), and upon realising my habit, I yank my hand down and my fingers whack against the dark oak of the pristine table. I smile tightly through the sharp pain in my finger tips as the old lady raises a greying brow at me, unimpressed.

A few taps on her keyboard later and she addresses me again. "You last worked… where?"

"'Scones n' Stuff'. That cafe just down the street. Ran out of business." I say carefully. She batters away at the keyboard some more before squinting. She then turns the screen around to face me, but only a little, so I still have to crane my neck to see clearly.

"Judging from the skills required for your last job and other previous experiences, this should be quite fitting for you." She points with an ancient finger at her screen, tracing under some text in bold. I noticed that she's wearing nude shade of nail varnish- Agatha would be _disgusted._

" _W_ _ear_ _polish with colour"_ she would say, " _Or don't wear polish at all"._

"'Carer, preferably young and flexible around the clock, needed for a disabled gentleman. Days; Monday to Sunday, from 9am till 7pm'", she reads, watery grey eyes glancing at me. I gulp, slightly put off by the long work hours and lack of days off.

She raises her brow again. It's in desperate need of a plucking. "You did state earlier that you have experience as a care worker?" she inquires. I nod. "Part-time care, as part of a trainee-healthcare course I studied last year".

She clicks her tongue and nods, typing something else into her ancient looking keyboard.

"And the pay?" I ask after a few seconds, fiddling with the edge of my scarf. Give me any job, but at the end of the day, it's the pay I'm after.

"Reasonable- _very_ reasonable. Twenty pounds an hour. Total of a hundred and forty pounds a day", she glances at me, expectantly. It takes my entire mental and physical will to not let my jaw hang open.

"I'll take it."

*******

"A carer?"

I sigh as I lather a slab of butter on my scone, fresh from Tescos (since the decline of Scones n' Stuff, Tescos will have to do).

"Yep", I confirm, "With really good pay."

Penny stands with her hands on her broad hips, squinting down at the contract papers strewn over our kitchen table. "How much an hour again?" she asks without looking up, and I'm glad she doesn't. Her chocolaty gaze is intense, and it makes me uncomfortable during times when I'm uncertain of myself and my own decisions. Such as now.

Penelope Bunce, a short girl with a big heart, brain and attitude, is my best friend. I've known her since, I don't know, forever I suppose at this stage. Her parents have always acted as my own, since I never knew my real ones. When we weren't boarding at school, I stayed with her and her family; my years spent and memories made with them are something that I will cherish forever.

Now that we've finished second level education, and we both are at the ripe age of twenty and twenty-one, Penny has gone on to college and already has two years completed (which I will forever be pleased about. For Penny to not use her incredibly smart brain would be a bigger waste than throwing a fresh cherry scone in the bin), and I remain undecided with my college choices.

Though, and I will never tell her because I know she'd object, I'd much prefer to work and show my gratitude for her family's hospitality for me over the years by for once providing for the both of us, than to be too fussed with college. I did attend, mind you last year, for a healthcare course. It ran over the course of a year, and I got my qualification should I want to be a caretaker, but I never made any use of it.

And with this job, I certainly can.

"'Twenty an hour, total of one hundred and forty a day'", I quote, taking a deep bite of my scone. I relish the taste of the melted butter on my tongue.

Penny finally looks at me, peering over her half-moon rimmed glasses. I don't know why she wears them, even though I tell her they look witchy. She says that's the point. "This is a fully grown person we're talking about Simon. That's an awful lot of responsibility" she says, one dark brow dipping in concern. "Are you sure you're up for it?"

I swallow deeply, and then give her a wide smile, knowing fully well that there's bits of scone stuck on my teeth, and it's grossing her out. "Relax, Penny. With these arms, powered by the sacred power of sour-cherry scones, I can take on anything." I flex my admittedly muscle-lacking biceps for good measure.

"Tesco scones, Simon."

"So? I don't discriminate."

I stand from my chair, dusting the sweet crumbs from my hands, and walk around the table to her. I throw an arm around her shoulder and pull her close, whilst keeping my eyes trained on the contract sheets strewn on the table.

"It'll be fine Penny, you'll see. After a few weeks, we'll have more than enough money to get that new sofa you're always on about."

"When you put it like that…"

*******

_Let me die._

* * *


	2. Meeting and Greeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She raises a dark brow, and I feel my stomach drop in disappointment as I assume my answer isn't good enough for her. But instead, before I can try and add on to my reasons, she says "That is good. Actually, I was hoping for an answer like that. However, I must inform you that it is not my husband that is in need of caring."
> 
> I blink in surprise. "Oh?" I say dumbly. Not her husband? Who else could it possibly be then?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First thing to address, for those of you who saw the film/read the book of Me Before You, Niall is basically playing the same role Nathan. Or if you haven't read the book or film that is also cool; Niall will be Baz's physical caregiver. 
> 
> Second thing; for those of you who wanted to see a full introduction to Baz in this chapter, sorry you didn't. But you will for sure in the next one :)
> 
> Thanks for reading.

*******

"Now I know it's not how you like to dress…"

I hold back a scoff, frowning heavily at the shorter girl in the mirror's reflection. "It's not how anyone likes to dress, Penny."

After making sure I got out of bed on time this morning, via actually pulling me from the nest of blankets I was happily cocooned in (I slept through my alarm)(I didn't sleep well the night before!), and making sure I had a decent breakfast in me (scones, a fry, and scones again) Penelope set straight to the task of dressing me. I tried to explain to her that surely a carer wears quite casual, comfortable clothing, but she insisted otherwise.

What she pulled out of my admittedly small wardrobe was something I can't remember ever putting in it myself. And it's anything but comfortable.

I pull at the tie Penny expertly tied herself (much more quickly, I noticed sourly, than I could ever do on my own.) (Of course only if I decided to wear the blasted thing out of my own free will).

"I'm sorry but have you ever seen a carer walking around in a full suit? With a tie n' all?" I growl as I try to fluff up my hair she spent at least ten minutes trying to tame. Gel in my hair looks like what oil spilled on a lion's mane would look like.

"No, not all carers, but do you even know who you're working for? Simon, these are the Pitch's your waltzing off to, not old bloody Mary down the road." Penny explains, her voice rising two octaves higher than it needs to. She does this when she can't believe my obliviousness. Or just my lack of knowledge about anything she views as highly important. 

She spins me around to face her, making sure my collar is lying the right way. "Poor Mr.Grimm, his wife mustn't be able to take on all the responsibility of caring for him by herself." she finishes with a dusting to my shoulders. She places her hands on her broad hips with a sigh of satisfaction, a look in her eye that I can't really identify. Pride, I'd like to think.

"Any last bit of advice?" I ask through a nervous smile.

Penny lets out a hum of thought, then reaches up to pinch my cheek. "Don't accept any food that they give you."

I frown. "Why not?"

"Because you drool worse than a dog."

*******

When I discovered the name of the family I was to be working for, I'm not going to lie; I definitely had second thoughts. On my part it's my fault for not looking further into it the job, and well, yeah that's it.

The Grimm-Pitch's are a wealthy family that run a massive company: Pitch Industries (It was established by Natasha Pitch, before she passed, and Malcolm Grimm never changed it's name out of respect for her). They make musical instruments and equipment, all kinds; violins, cellos, guitars, trombones, pianos, the lot. The only instruments they do not make are electronic instruments and devices, like launch pads and electric guitars. Why, I don't know. My guess is that they simply prefer the more classical stuff. They're rich, wealthy, and I assume terrifyingly snobby. 

I don't know how Natasha Pitch died, though.

On my bus journey to the Pitch mansion (yup, a mansion) I begin to regret eating such a large breakfast. As much as I know how much better I work on a full stomach, the butterflies doing three-sixties in there are starting to get to me, and a sharp queasiness has settled in my chest. Luckily, the journey from Penny and I's apartment to the mansion is short, and I can now see the surrounding outer high walls of the mansion coming into view.

I eventually get off the bus, straightening my collar and the cuffs of my sleeves as I step onto the pebbled ground. When I look up from my fumbling (I'm a terror for leaving things behind me, so I perform a routine check every time I step off public transport to check I've everything with me)(Penny says I'd forget my head if it wasn't screwed on right), I see a middle aged woman standing in the courtyard waiting for me, hands neatly folded in front of her, her stance professional.

I give her my best smile, hoping it doesn't show how nervous I am. (Hoping I brushed my teeth properly as well)(I run my tongue over them quickly to be sure).

As I approach her, her eyes regard me coolly and a small smile graces her Billie Piper looking lips. Upon closer inspection, I decide that she's in her thirties, possibly forties, and she has an air of regal grace about her. Her dark brown hair is pulled pack into a neat bun, and her attire consists of a white blouse, a formal black pencil skirt and small heels. She gives off a vibe to me that I decide is relatively pleasant and not too intimidating at all.

For now.

She holds out an elegant hand, and I accept it, hoping she didn't notice the nervous shake in my own hand. "You must be Simon Snow" she says, her voice low and calm. "My name is Daphne Grimm. It's nice to make your acquaintance at last."

I nod earnestly. "Yes I am. A pleasure to meet you, Mrs.Grimm’’, I say as calmly and earnestly as I can, hoping to come off as gathered and collected.

Her green eyes give a little twinkle, and immediately I decide that I like this woman. "Please, just call me Daphne. Now, if you would follow me please."

She turns on her little black heels and gestures for me to follow. I walk beside her, trying to decide if should walk with my hands in my pockets or by my sides. I decide on the latter.

Inside, the mansion is huge, with everything themed wooden and rustic and red, but with a modern twist. Our footsteps echo on the polished oak floor (it’s so shiny I can see my sweaty red face in it)(shit I’ve been sweating this much?) as she leads me into a large study room, with two long couches and a coffee table centered in the middle of the room on a thick red rug. Tall windows allow a generous amount of light into the room, and tall bookshelves line three surrounding walls.

Despite its vastness it packs comfort and warmth. I decide that the room alone probably costs more that Penny and I's whole apartment.

Daphne gestures for me to sit, and as I do she takes a seat across from me on the opposite couch. The leather is cool, and it feels like sinking back into a giant marshmallow.

She crosses her legs, sitting delicately. "Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Snow?" she asks politely. Unsure of whether or not it would be rude to decline, I decide to accept.

"Yes please, I would. Oh and please, just call me Simon." I gush.

Daphne nods and elegantly raises a hand. Suddenly an old maid walks into the room, carrying a tray with a steaming pot and two teacups on saucers. She places it on the coffee table in front of us and makes quick work of pouring the steaming hot contents of the pot into the expensive cups (I realise that it's fucking porcelain China). Jasmine tea, I can tell from the soothing aroma.

Daphne nods her thanks to the maid. "Thank you, Vera". The maid, Vera, bows in courtesy and walks out of the room without a word, giving me a small wrinkled smile as she passes me.

"Now, onto business." I turn my attention back to the woman across me, and pick up my tea, taking a sip. I try not to cringe at the scalding temperature of it as it slips down my throat. Daphne daintily holds her cup expertly with two fingers, her pinky finger extended, and I decide that mimicking the posh technique would only end up with me spilling the contents of my cup down my suit. "Tell me, Simon, what are your skills, what attracts you to this job, and why should I hire you?"

The questions shake me a little. Skills? Very little. What attracts me to this job? I can't just say the money, how rude and unprofessional would that be? I set my cup down, and nervously pull at the leg of my trousers.

"Well," I start, nervously meeting her calm eyes, and decide that honesty is the best policy in these cases; "I haven't many skills to be honest. I can cook, clean and I'm good with people. I worked in a café, 'Scones 'n Stuff'? You may have heard of it... eh before em- before applying for this job, so interacting with other people is quite easy for me. I also did trainee healthcare course a year ago, so I still have some knowledge from that and um… I can make a mean cup of tea?" I finish weakly, resisting the urge to scratch the back of my neck to stem my nerves. I settle for reaching for my cup again, taking a quick sip. I replace it just as quickly when my hands start to become slick with sweat. I can't afford to pay for fucking China if it falls and smashes.

Daphne's face remains neutral, and I wait for it to slip into an unimpressed frown. Instead, she tilts her head a bit, her green eyes remaining cool and calm. She's brilliant at holding eye contact, I notice. "And why should I hire you?"

I hesitate, unsure of what answer to give her. After a few seconds of deliberating, I say, "I just really want to help people- I always have. Whether they just need a little bit of help or a lot. I- I just want to help. And in this case, I want to help your husband, Mr.Grimm."

She raises a dark brow, and I feel my stomach drop in disappointment as I assume my answer isn't good enough for her. But instead, before I can try and add on to my reasons, she says "That is good. Actually, I was hoping for an answer like that. However, I must inform you that it is not my husband that is in need of caring."

I blink in surprise. "Oh?" I say dumbly. Not her husband? Who else could it possibly be then?

Daphne stands from the couch, straightening her skirt once on her feet. "Follow me please, Simon." she says and sets off out the door. I stand up hurriedly and set off after her.

She leads me down the long halls of the mansion (we must pass at least fifty different portraits of past family members, some ancient and some more up-to-date) until we reach a large set of cream double doors. She opens one and gestures for me to walk inside.

I comply, and am greeted with a massive, pleasant, modern and hygienic four part room, complete with soft furnishings. On one side of the room is a kitchen, with a marble island and expensive cooking equipment, and on the other is a large dining table. The chairs that surround it, only four in total, are cream leather, much like the cream painted walls. There's a wide doorway into a bathroom, and from my position I can see that inside there is a huge shower with a seat fitted against the wall, and other aiding equipment. The lushness of the marble tiling and glass doors is somewhat dampened by said equipment. 

I realise that I am in a totally separate part of the mansion, one designed and equipped to help only someone who cannot look after themselves. Daphne stands beside me and gestures around the room. "As you can see, we are very well established and equipped. I will show you where everything is later. But first I need you to confirm... that you are aware that this job requires aid to someone with full loss of mobility, yes?"

In all honesty I wasn't really aware; I had never thought about to what extent of disability the person I was to look after had (most of the time I just never think). But I nod my head anyway, the seriousness of this job settling on my shoulders. Because I genuinely want to help, and I need the money.

Daphne gives an appreciative nod of her head and walks forward to one more set of doors into the last part of the room, these ones being glazed sliding doors. She grips the handle and slides the door open.

The room revealed to me is a bedroom, again fully equipped, but with a personal touch. Obviously, from the one who occupies it.

A man is bent over someone in a wheelchair, and he looks up. He's young, but definitely older than me, possibly around the age of twenty-eight or twenty-nine, with brown eyes and hair and dressed in hospital scrubs. He doesn't look like he can pack much punch, but he smiles friendly when he sees me.

"This is Niall," Daphne says, returning his smile politely, "He will be helping you as well as showing you the routines. And this…" she continues as the man, Niall, presses a button that makes the electronic chair turn around to face me.

And I'm stunned into oblivion when my eyes land upon the face of person occupying it;

A young man, around my age, with the darkest hair and palest, prettiest and most striking grey eyes I've ever seen.

"... is my stepson, Basilton."

* * *


	3. Life's a Pitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then he makes his first mistake; holding one freckled hand out, he proceeds to shake my own in greeting. 
> 
> My hands, both lying limp on the armrests of my chair.
> 
> My hands, paralysed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there,  
> Not much to say other than this chapter is quite short, and I apologize for that, but I wanted you readers to see into Baz's head first before I proceeded with Simon's P.O.V. so that you could understand his behaviour and how he will treat Simon in future chapters, hence the small 1,000 word or so introduction.

**BAZ**

My mother has messed up massively. Goodness sake she had, what, one job? And more than enough ability, _mobility_ pardon fucking me, to do it.

Fuck sake I even gave in to accepting that Niall couldn't look after me on his own, not when he has so many other patients to tend to. Mother (Daphne that is, I only call her that to please father) has neither the time nor strength or energy to lift me – I shudder at even having to admit such a fact- and my father is never here. Out doing things that I should be doing, that I _used_ to do. Trying to keep Pitch Industries afloat, like I _used_ to.

It used to thrive, like I _used_ to.

Key words being _used to._

I know that Father will never admit it, because if there's one good thing I suppose I can say about him, is that he loves me. Loves me more than fucking life itself. But he'll never admit to me, nor to anyone, that he's disappointed. Not _in_ me, no, like I said before he loves me, but disappointed _about_ me. That I'm queer, for a start. Though we crossed that bridge a long time ago and he's "dealt" with the fact that, to put it bluntly, I can't fuck with girls, I know that he still can't accept it, not really.

Doesn't matter now anyway, I suppose.

Which brings me to my second disappointing quality; I can't even walk. I'm paralysed. Ha fucking ha.

I twitch my mouth- the coarse beard that I've grown out since that day is quite impressive, but it's goddamn itchy. Haven't even got hands to scratch it. Such a _charmed_ life. Perhaps I can ask this mutt that my stepmother has hired to fucking scratch it for me.

Medium height, stocky yet lean, with bronze hair that looks unkept yet flawlessly curly simultaneously, fidgety hands and trousers too short at the ankles- his suit is fucking _laughable_. Someone threw a jar of cinnamon at his face when he was a baby, or something, because no one can have that many freckles scattered across their nose. Boring as fuck blue eyes, stubby-ass lashes and chapped lips.

He's fucking beautiful.

He grins, one corner of his mouth lifting higher than the other. "H-hello, uh, I'm Simon Snow, nice t'meet you, Basilton." Chopped words, a typical, heavy and rough South London accent.

Then he makes his first mistake; holding one freckled hand out, he proceeds to shake my own in greeting. _My_ hands, both lying limp on the armrests of my chair. My hands, paralysed. A second too late the gears in his miniscule brain (I'd love someone to get a microscope and examine it; I bet it's really fucking tiny) start turning and he realises his mistake and freezes.

He stammers and runs a hand (there's a mole on his little finger, how _cute)_ through his messy curls, attempting to play it off as his intention all along. There's a pregnant silence in the room, and I let him stew in it. Because I've no ability to control anything else in my life, may as well control this. (I know, I'm cruel).

Niall, however, finishes zipping up his medical bag and gives him a tight lipped smile (not because he's pissed or anything; his lips are just quite thin) and says, "Nice to meet you too Simon, looking forward to working with you", thus breaking the silence that I was beginning to enjoy.

The mutt stutters and grasps at the rope that Niall has thrown him. "You, uh, you too!", he just about manages to get out, nodding his head vigorously and bronze curls going every direction. He wears it up-to-date; close-shaved and short at the sides with curls piled on top. Typically boyish. I would think that he's of them boys that broke hearts with a smile- if he could get a word out properly and didn't stammer his way through a conversation, that is.

Mother clears her throat elegantly, and I wait a few seconds before giving her my attention. She raises a manicured brow at me and encourages me with her eyes to say something. I don't want to. I most certainly do not fucking want to.

He's only here because of me.

He's only here because of the job and the no doubt amazing pay it offers.

He's only here because I'm bound to a chair. Bound to a life of spoon feeding, of lifting, turning, twisting, sighing, crying, _dying_.

Dying.

I'm not being dramatic. I died that day, when carelessness and lack of awareness was the only thing that directed me through London's busy streets. I died the moment I lost the ability to raise my arms, tap my foot, turn my neck. Live.

Everyone tells me that I'm wrong; Mother, Father, Niall. Everyone being anyone who still has the ability to wipe their own arse. Anyone still standing on two feet. But anyone standing on their own two feet can't possibly breathe them words laced with pity and tied with a bow of sorrow without knowing for themselves how it fucking feels.

How it feels every day when I wake up, wanting to stretch, reach across cool sheets to the body of the one that I love, to get up and put on my own clothes, make my own breakfast.

How now instead I wake up, and icy fear drowns me as I realise that I can't fucking move, the bed is not slightly dipped and lacks one extra person, how I cannot slip my arms down the sleeves of cool white cotton shirts and do up the laces of my shoes, how now my lips are prodded with a cool metal spoon as I'm fucking spoon-fed.

I died that day. And every day when I wake, up, I die all over again.

He's here. Because of me.

Standing in my private space, with apples in his checks, sweat from nervous exertion on his forehead and life in his eyes. Smelling of outside and the spring sunshine and something warm and sweet.

He’s so alive; he’s got my share of it.

He’s probably got a girlfriend, blonde I’d say, waiting for him back at whatever cosy home he comes from. He’ll leave here tonight, with love and warmth and kisses to look forward to. He’ll cook her a homemade meal, or perhaps he’ll order themselves a takeaway, if he’s too tired to cook. And then they’ll go to bed, happy and comfortable and in love in each-other’s arms.

Like I used to do.

Like I used to be able to.

He’s here. Because of me.

Call me selfish. Unfair. Cruel. I don't care.

Because my life is anything but fair.

My life used to consist of successful business handshakes and sauvignon blanc at my lips and long summer drives. It used to consist of hands at my waist and kisses on my neck and love, love, love. Playing football with Mordelia, dimmed theatre lights and running my bow across my grandfather’s violin and applause. Croissants in Paris and damp, cold mornings spent in bed in London and scorching heat in Spain.

Wet rain, a motorbike horn, the smell of burning rubber, blackness. _Pain_. And then my life was this.

My life is now anything but fair. So, don't fucking mind me if I take out a _portion_ of my anger on this pretty boy here, who is only going to benefit financially from it.

I lick my lips, raise a brow and curl my lips back into the cruellest sneer that I can muster, "How fucking _marvellous_ it is to meet you, Simon Snow."

I watch as sweat clings to his brow, his face pales and floods with dread. As he realises what he's signed up for.

I.Don't. Care.

* * *


	4. Pretty Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He’s a type of pretty that would be plastered across fashion magazines and ads for watches, though the focus wouldn’t be on the watch and instead on his face. 
> 
> He’s the type of pretty that’s all sharp angles and edges, silky dark hair, plump lips and arched eyebrows.
> 
> His cheekbones alone could give Angelina Jolie a run for her money."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there,
> 
> So I thought I'd put out a little note, because I've notice that it's something that's been questioned a lot; I don't have the end planned for this story yet. I know the actual ending of Me Before You was, to put it simply, unnecessarily heart-wrenching. However, do I have a ending similar to it planned? No, I'm not sure yet. But, if I do decide to have a similar ending, I promise I will give a warning. 
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and kudos so far!
> 
> Thanks for reading xo

**SIMON**

“We keep his meds in this cupboard here. Don’t worry about trying to memorise everything just yet, I have rota done up already in case you’re unsure. And over here…”

Niall is taking me through all I need to know about Basilton’s medication and various other necessities. He’s a nice chap, decent looking, even in his blue scrubs. I can tell he’s been here a while; he opens cabinets and presses mechanically and gestures to bottles with white caps and bottles with red caps and bottles with _every fucking colour_ of cap, without actually having to look at them…

I’m hopelessly lost.

“His stabilizers are here- his medical stabilizers, not the actual wheels for his chair- they’re for his mood swings, and you need to give these to him every night before you leave. It’s extremely important that you do, mate. And then we his nerve medication, his muscle spasm meds, and then-”

I swallow. “Yeah, um- sorry but eh… um, what exactly do they do? The spasm meds, I mean?” I say. Heat rushes up my neck at when I realise how lost I sound.

Niall pauses and looks at me. His face is distant, and his eyes are unfocused as he back tracks. Then he smiles again, and his eyes come back into focus (they’re a sort of muddy blue, like his genetics couldn’t decide which colour they should be).

“Oh yeah, sorry, forgot myself there. Well, they do what they say on the tin, to be honest. His muscles, even though he can’t use them, still spasm, and when they do it’s pretty painful. So he needs to take these.”

Niall turns and reaches inside a glass cabinet, pulling out a standard white box of tablets. He taps his index finger against the packaging, “But as well as that, because Baz can’t move, his muscles don’t expand or contract as often as they should, so the lymph fluid in his body can’t move up the lymph vessels.”

He empties the contents of the box onto the table, red and yellow tablets inside aluminium foil gleaming under the bright kitchen lights. “He can’t feel its affects, but that much fluid build-up isn’t good for his body. So, it’s important he takes these for the pain when his muscles do spasm, and...”

He stretches across the kitchen island, plucking up an exercise sheet he’d explained to me only about ten minutes ago (I’ve forgotten all of them already). “To balance out the build-up of lymph, you have to do these exercises, especially this one here”, he says, pointing with a long finger at the diagram of lower-leg raising exercises and techniques. “It’s tricky to get the hang of first, and there’s a lot of hands on contact, but it’s good for him and needs to be done.”

Niall raises his gaze to mine once more, and I must look like a ghost because his eyes soften. “Don’t worry mate, you’ll get the hang of knowing what is what. And I’m here most days to check on him anyway.”

I nod silently. I knew that there would be medication to sort through, and exercises to carry out and lunch and mealtimes to remember. I knew that.

The shock factor is still heavy though.

I glance at the sliding glazed-glass doors again. Basilton- _Baz_ \- he had snarled at me when I used his full name, was currently talking to Daphne. A private issue, I assume, but my ears are burning and I can’t help but wonder if he’s complaining about me.

My ears haven’t stopped burning since I went to fucking shake his hand. A man, staring at me with pretty, dead grey eyes and clearly fucking unable to move. And I went to shake his hand. Penny will have a _field_ _day_ with this.

He’s handsome, Baz is, in a pretty way. Not boyish, but not rugged in that manly looking way either. (Though the beard adorning his jaw does tilt him towards the more handsomely rugged category)(I’m well jealous of it. I’m twenty-one and all I can manage to produce is rough stubble. He’s twenty-two, and adolescence still isn’t done dealing his face aces yet).

He’s a type of pretty that would be plastered across fashion magazines and ads for watches, though the focus wouldn’t be on the watch and instead on his face. He’s the type of pretty that’s all sharp angles and edges, silky dark hair, plump lips and arched eyebrows. His cheekbones alone could give Angelina Jolie a run for her money.

His skin is warm, but it looks like it hasn’t seen the sun in a long time. His eyes are dangerous, and possibly the prettiest thing about him. But I can’t help but feel like they used to be prettier.

They’re a type of grey, today anyway, that’s the colour of wet pavement. They’re dull and almost lifeless looking. For several moments, in the first few minutes I was introduced to him, they almost seemed to spark blue and green, like they were coming back to life. But it must’ve just been the lighting, because they’re back to an ash grey.

He doesn’t like me. And, begrudgingly, I can understand why:

I don’t know what his past life was like, how long he’s been in a chair like this. I don’t know what happened to him, whether it was an accident or simply his own body attacking his own nervous system, leading to paralysis. Or stroke? I haven’t a notion, but I can’t imagine how he feels, day in, day out, to live a life like this (one of the doses of tablets he takes are anti-depressants, three times a day)(Along with his stabilisers...).

He was successful, that’s for sure; there’s a shelf in his room and at least two other even larger ones hanging on the far wall beside the dining table, full to the brim of awards and medals and plaques. There’s even a fucking sash pinned from one corner to the other of one shelf. It’s faded though, and I can’t see what he won it for. Something dead posh, like Polo or those rich people sports.

He had a life, that’s for sure, before this life he has now. Any life before paralysis would be better in comparison to living in a chair, but I can feel that his one was one of good fortune and opportunities. One full of love and laughter and _living_. The life of only someone from a rich and prestige background could live. A life where everything was something to lose.

And he lost a good portion, if not damn near all, of it. And for that, yes, I feel terrible for him.

But what does annoy me is that he doesn’t know me, not yet. Yet straightaway he looked at me up and down with those fucking grey eyes, and I felt like something that was scraped off the bottom of his foot. (Or wheelchair wheel, I suppose). And when he sneered at me my face went all blotchy and red and frightfully embarrassing to look it. And then the corner of his mouth twitched upward into a smirk, cruel and unkind. Frigid, like his eyes.

He's judged me before he knows me, which I can’t help but think is unfair. How is he to know I don’t have shit going on in my own life?

Ok true, I think any bad shit in my life compared to his is tame as fuck, but _still._

I think what boils his piss the most is my reason for being here; _him_. To look after him and do everything for him that he used to be able to do for himself. I need the money, I can’t lie about that. I am here primarily because of that. And he _hates_ it. Hates that he’s the charity case, and I’m the one benefiting from it.

But beggars can’t be choosers. I can’t make him like me. So I’ll just take what I can get, even if it means being verbally crucified by his tongue.

I sneak another glance around the room, all the glass cabinets and cream painted wooden doors of presses and kitchen units, all of which are nearly full to the brim with medication. I can’t help but wonder how his body can take all these meds; they help him, yes, but there’s so many chemicals and treatments and vials and measurements, I don’t know how it doesn’t have a negative cocktail effect on him.

Every morning, I’ve learned, he takes five different tablets with his breakfast, three of them crushed into his porridge and two downed with a glass of orange juice.

Every afternoon, at exactly three p.m, he takes a steroid and a tonic. According to Niall the steroid is to help keep his heart muscles active. A body with severe nerve damage, or paralysis, apparently has a weakened heart, and energy from carbs and protein isn’t enough to keep it pumping. A weak heart provides weak blood circulation, and weak blood circulation means low oxygen getting into his cells.

And then that means complications I don’t even want begin to think about.

Niall says the tonic is something Baz has always taken, because, and I quote, “ _he’s a posh git like that_ ”.

In the evening, along with his dinner (which I’ve to spoon-feed to him, along with everything else)(I knew this already, but standing in such close proximity to him absolutely terrifies me, in a ‘my hand will shake the whole way to his mouth’ type of way) he takes his final four tablets; an anti-depressant (that makes my heart sink), a capsule of vitamin C, and two other supplements I don’t know the names of.

Twelve tablets all together, each day. Twelve tablets to keep him just feeling OK.

I don’t know what it will take to ever make him feel more than that.

*******

****

**_BAZ_ **

“Basil, you must give him a chance.”

Daphne is trying to reason with me. She’s been full of praise for the mutt- _Snow_ , pardon me- rattling off on how much help he’ll be for Niall, how he lives close by and will be able to come around if I need help (that’s a big laugh, all my life _is_ is needing fucking _help_ ) or if something happens, and overall just how fucking _lovely_ he is.

She keeps saying how he can change my mind, how he can be _so good_ for me, how he can give me the will to be _me_ again.

I stopped listening soon after she listed the fifth best thing about him. It has started to rain outside, and crystal grey drops are running down the ceiling-to-floor windowpane. I’ve got a fabulous view of the gardens; I had them customised to mimic that little garden me and Tobias visited four years ago in Paris.

I remember it had been raining, just a light drizzle, like today, but enough to make me grumble about how it made my hair look greasy. He flicked me on the nose, and pulled me up to dance in the rain.

I haven’t been out in the gardens in a long time. There’s no point now, anymore. I should get them altered again, though, so that the memory they represent will just stop _hurting_ me.

“Basil…”

My eyes rest on the frames standing upright on the armoire. It’s full of picture frames, but my eyes always linger on the centre photograph. It stands next to the frame of my mother holding me as a child on her knee, though I can’t remember that one being taken.

It’s Tobias and I. He has a strong arm thrown across my shoulder, bright green eyes sparkling and teeth sharp and white. He’s laughing, his eyes crinkled at the corners.

I’m looking directly at the camera, lips not quite smiling, more so smirking. But my smile is in my eyes, and I look _so happy_. My skin is the shocking thing; a warm, copper olive, compared to the pasty mess that I am now. The Eiffel tower is behind us, the sky is dark save for the orange glow of the city lights in the distance.

I wish I smiled more that day.

“Basil?”

 _“Je t’aime”, he murmured against my wine stained lips._ _“Mon amour, mon Cherie…”_

“Basilton.”

I blink, and my eyes suddenly feel like they aren’t mine anymore. They feel heavy, and I can’t seem to get them to focus. Like I’m looking through the eyes of someone else. Like this body, this life, isn’t _mine._

But it is, isn’t it?

Daphne stands in front of me, blocking my view from memories preserved behind glass and wooden frames. I blink again, and raise a brow. Then I drop it, because this is my stepmother, and with as much self-loathing there is swallowing me whole and hatred I have for the world, none of it should ever be directed at her,

She’s loved me through my worst. She still loves me now. She loved me straight away when my Father remarried. She cared for me as her own. And I’ll always be grateful for that.

Her lovely green eyes are wide and worried, and starting to become shiny with tears pooling along her lash line. If I could reach out to cup her cheek or hold her hand, I would.

But I _can’t_.

Instead, I smile without meaning. I smile because it’s what she wants to see, and it’s all I can give her.

“Basil, _please_ give this a chance. Please let _him_ help _you_.”

I swallow, and I want to look away because her gaze is so intense and so eager and so _hopeful_. It’s too much, and I want to turn my head to relieve myself of the intensity of it.

But I _can’t._

Instead I look at her in the eye and promise her lies.

“Alright, Mother. I’ll try.”

Lies and lies and lies. It’s all I can do anymore.

Nothing can change my mind. Six months. I’m giving them six months, and that’s it.

Nothing can change my mind.

Not even Simon bloody Snow.

* * *


	5. Does he have to be such a Pitch?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well yeah-”
> 
> “Here’s what I know about you, Snow.” Baz cuts me off. He makes the chair move back, so he can see me from head to toe. His eyes sweep up and down my body, and I try not to blush (from embarrassment. His gaze is intense, even when it’s lifeless).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update, with direct interaction between these idiots. Enjoy xo

**SIMON**

I hate to say it, but I dread getting up these mornings.

I, with a passion, hate the 8 o’clock alarm on my phone; there’s been many times where I’ve contemplated throwing the device across the room when it goes off every morning at said hour. But then I’d have to buy a new one.

I could, with my new wages, but then there’s still a chance I’d launch that phone at the wall too.

My time as a caregiver has been nothing but _hateful_.

It’s been a month since I first started, and at first I was hopeful. Perhaps Baz wasn’t good with new people, perhaps it took him time to warm up. And I was patient, I was _so_ fucking patient it damn near fucking killed me some of those first few days.

The first day was _horrific_ , though I really tried my best to keep smiling.

“Morning,” I had called cheerfully when I walked into Baz’s private section of the Pitch mansion. I got no response, and instead the blaring of ACDC through ridiculously large speakers in his room only increased in volume.

 _Ignoring_ me.

I acquainted myself with all his meds, determined to memorize them. Crushed them up the way they were supposed to be, they way he apparently liked them.

I then proceeded to spill orange juice down the front of his shirt.

And shove the tip of a fork up one of his nostrils.

And dribble tea down his chin.

Each time I messed up, he sneered at me so hard I was sure his face would get stuck that way. At first he swore blue murder at me (which was understandable- piping hot tea is something anyone would roar about), and damn near crucified me for staining his good shirt.

“ _Fucking Gucci, Snow,”_ he had snarled. _“Fucking Gucci_.”

Now he doesn’t wear near as expensive fucking Gucci clothing anymore.

After that he seemed to have given up on ridiculing me about everything I got wrong. Which, to be honest, I found to be much worse, because now he’s stopped speaking to me completely. Instead, he communicates through his eyes, still lifeless and ash-grey, and each time he looks at me I shrivel up on the inside a little more.

I _refuse_ to give him baths.

It’s not so much the nudity that annoys me. I’m not prudish, or anything. If it was anyone else, I’d have no problem! I’d be gentle undressing them, and chat away as if we were talking about the weather to ease their embarrassment or discomfort. I’d turn the power of the water to a level that’s just gentle, like a caress.

I’d discuss my favourite things about London, or talk about Penny or express how brilliant I think roast beef is. I’d discuss my plans for the future with Agatha – or maybe I wouldn’t do that, I’m not sure about anything with Agatha these days.

She’s busy competing most weekends, so she is, and when she’s not she’s training her five other mares. One of them stood on my foot, one time when I was helping her groom them. The beast wouldn’t move until Agatha came back from the arena to help me. 

When I told her I finally got a job, I was sure she would be happy for me. And she was. But it looked like it killed her to smile.

 _“That’s lovely, Simon,_ ” she said. _“Now could you help me load Maribel onto the truck?”_

But anyway, I’d talk away, and then dry them off gently and dress them and carry on with whatever else needs to be done.

Bathing Baz terrifies me.

I expressed my concern to Niall, though he thought I was being ludicrous:

“ _Please Niall, he hates me. He’ll find some way to kill me in there and blame it on the wet tiles_.”

Niall’s brows had furrowed heavily; _“He’s disabled, Snow,”_ (He picked up the second name basis from Baz, which gets under my skin more than I’d like to admit)(Although Niall says it much more nicely), _“He can’t push you or shove you. You’ve nothing to be worried about?”_

 _“He’ll find a way Niall. Please, please just- can… – fuck can you just bathe him? I’ll do everything else, just please_ _not that. Everything but that.”_

To his credit Niall complied, but he still was puzzled by it. Anyone would be puzzled by my reluctance if they weren’t at the receiving end of Baz’s torrent of venomous words.

Most mornings when I walk in, I meet Niall on his way out. He’ll mutter under his breath “bad day” or “not so bad”.

He’s never whispered “good day” so far.

The worst thing to be told, though, is “gone”.

When Baz is ‘gone’, he’s still here, but he may as well not be. It’s like his mind is somewhere else. He’ll open his mouth when I give him tea, and swallow his pills.

But he won’t look at me.

He’ll stare off out his ridiculously large window, eyes unfocused but yet set with a gaze so intense it’s like he is looking at something. I tried looking outside before, on his ‘gone’ days, but I can never see anything.

Those days shake me, so when I walk through the cream oak door the morning after, I’m almost relieved to hear him hurling abuse at Niall. (Not the same abuse as me though. They have banter, and when Niall walks out he’s smiling).

I’ve tried to get to know him. Though, I didn’t exactly try my hardest that one time. It was my second week, and I’d completed all my chores and sorted through all his meds. It was raining outside, and I decided to try at talk to him.

I slid open one of the sliding doors, and slipped inside. He had been facing away from me, his dark hair loose around his shoulders. He had another rock band playing, but it was turned down low, so I don’t think he’d been listening to it.

I actually don’t think he likes hard rock at all, more so he blasts it just to annoy me.

I cleared my throat and stepped into his view, trying to give my best smile. “So, Baz, what do you-”

“Fuck off, Snow.”

I was so taken aback, I didn’t try to say anymore to him. He never lifted his gaze, didn’t move a muscle in his face. Just looked right through me with uninterested eyes and dismissed me. I’d been so discouraged and felt so embarrassed that I just left the room, muttering a weak _“Call me if you need me.”_

“He hates me Pen,” I complained to Penny one evening, my face shoved into one of the pillows on our couch. It smelt like home and like Penny (and vaguely like me, but more so my sweat than any of the cheap colognes I slap on some times) and I was so exhausted that day that I nearly cried with relief when I flopped down onto it. “He hates me, and I don’t know why.”

Penny paused, lifting her gaze to look over her glasses at me. The light of her laptop was reflecting off them in a sharp glare, and I could see the essay she was typing; something about how Shakespeare was sexist and racist.

She sniffed. “You have to understand though, Simon, how he must feel. He doesn’t want to be friends with you because of what you are to him. At the end of the day, you’re just his caregiver.”

I huffed, and flopped onto my back. “That doesn’t mean he has to be so _mean_!” I argued heatedly. My face felt hot and itchy and I could feel myself getting worked up.

Penny dropped her gaze back to her screen. “True,” she said. “But think about what he thinks when he sees you; you can walk, you can do all the things he used to. You get for him what he used to be able to get himself.”

I growled. “He thinks I’m stupid. Some days he doesn’t even have to say it; he just looks at me and I want to die.” I swear that if looks could kill I would have died about fifty times at this stage.

She sighed and jabbed a few keys on the keyboard. “Give him time, Simon. He’ll warm up to you eventually.”

That was two weeks ago, and if anything he’s gotten colder.

I do understand where Penny is coming from, genuinely I do. But I don’t understand how he can be pleasant to Niall ( i.e not completely degrading him with words), and not try and make some sort of effort with me.

When I asked Niall about this, he simply shrugged. “We’ve been friends for years mate, so he knows me well. He’s always been a bit of a git, more so after the accident. Just give him time.”

 _Give him time_ , they said. _He’ll warm up to you_ , they said. It’s driving me mental.

I still haven’t asked how the accident happened- I don’t feel like it’s my place to ask yet.

But I heed Niall and Penny’s advice, and decide that this morning I’m going to try and talk to him again, get him to open up to me more. Lord knows I can’t continue if it stays like this. I don’t think anyone could, even Baz.

***

“Morning,” I call, probably too cheerfully when I step through the door. I don’t expect a reply, but I do hear a grunt in acknowledgement. Ok then, grunts are something. Better than nowt. 

Niall walks out, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “’Lo Simon. Talk to you later.” Just as he passes me, he puts his hand on my shoulder and stoops a little to my level.

“Decent day,” he whispers with a grin, and I feel my hopes rise a little.

I get his breakfast ready. The place smells like cedar and bergamot, so I know he’s just fresh out of the shower. It’s pleasant, probably the only pleasant thing about him. And posh. So _bloody_ posh.

I don’t try to talk to him when he’s eating- past mistakes have told me that it’s not a wise thing to do. Instead I take in his profile.

His hair is still slightly damp, falling in soft waves around his jaw. His face looks lovely, brighter than usual, I think. His eyes are still half droopy with sleep, and still the colour of wet pavement. But his brows aren’t furrowed into frown lines, nor is his mouth pulled downwards at the corners in a grimace.

Usually by now he’d regard me with a look of disgust. But today he’s skipped that. Perhaps I made a decent choice on my clothing this morning. (Baz always looks at me like I’m something the cat dragged in most mornings. I never understand it, because last time I checked, jeans and a flannel jumper were acceptable to wear)(Maybe it’s the scarves I swear?)(Some of them are a little funky looking, I will admit…)

He looks good.

My hopes are still high when I pile the dishes into the sink. We did his exercises yesterday, so I have plenty of free time to get him to chat with me.

(Doing Baz’s exercises is an unusual experience. I expected his calf muscles to feel like, well, _shit_ , to be honest. Soft and barely there. Wasted from lack of use. But they weren’t, and to my complete fucking amazement they were firm and defined, like those of a footballer’s. How, I haven’t a fucking clue.)

I stroll back into his room. He’s got his eyes focused on the large flat screen T.V that takes up at least half the fucking wall, with speakers built in behind large portraits of landscapes and horses (Agatha would love that).

His mouth is pursed, like he’s concentrating. I swallow my nerves and step into his view, like I did last time. He blinks and his eyes focus on me.

“Baz.” I say simply.

He quirks a manicured brow at me. “Snow.” he replies dryly.

I shift my weight onto one hip, my hands clasped behind my back, and then I unclasp them and shove them into my pockets, hoping to come off cool and collected. “I was thinking-“

“That’s new.”

I swallow a growl that rises in my throat, and smile tightly. “I was _thinking_ , we could do something today. What do you usually do for fun?”

Baz looks at me, like _really_ looks at me. Then he smiles, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s worse than if he was scowling.

“Well, Snow, I take great pleasure in being hauled up from bed each morning. And then I usually sit and just about exist.”

His smile is completely sour now, like two month old milk. He raises his other brow at me, testing me. I can feel my own smile slipping.

I run a hand through my curls and try not to ruffle them. Penny says that it’s a clear sign that I’m agitated. “Well- I mean, is there anything else you like to do? We could go outside? Your chair is adapted for car transport?”

Baz looks at me like I’m being an extra special idiot. “And you thought a drive would be good for me? A breath of _fresh_ air?” he says, voice dripping with so much sarcasm I’m surprised it hasn’t pooled in a puddle on the floor yet.

“Well, yeah-”

“Here’s what I know about you, Snow.” Baz cuts me off. He makes the chair move back, so he can see me from head to toe. His eyes sweep up and down my body, and I try not to blush (from embarrassment. His gaze is intense, even when it’s lifeless).

But there’s life in his eyes now. The green and blue flecks are sparking among the grey, fueled by whatever emotions are curling in his gut.

He looks at me, and I want to feel pride for being the one to make his eyes change like that, even just a little bit. But it’s for the wrong reasons, and he’s looking down on me (that’s how little I feel; he’s the one with a height disadvantage to me in his chair, yet he seems so much taller than me).

“My mother says you’re… lively. And _chatty_ , when you can actually string a sentence together.” A growl rips from my throat, for real this time, and I do nothing to stop it. Baz’s eyes light up even more. It’s so fucking amazing yet so fucking shit to see.

“How about we make a deal,” he suggests, a cruel smirk tugging his lips upwards, “whereby you are very _unchatty_ … around _me_ ”.

I stare at him, slack-jawed.

He stares right back, eyes never leaving mine. They’re the colour of liquid silver now. And I hate that it’s as a result of the pleasure he’s taking from this.

A few heartbeats pass, and he doesn’t drop my gaze. There’s just me and him and the spring sunlight shining through his window illuminating his grey eyes and casting shadows under his cheekbones and that horrible, _horrible_ smirk.

I drop my gaze. I let my hands hang by my sides. “Ok…” I mumble, starting towards the doors. “Call me if you need anything.”

I don’t even have to look at him to see his smirk growing wider; I can hear it in his words.

“ _Lovely._ ” he drawls.

I shut the sliding doors behind me, and when I’m far away enough I let out a shaky breath, and bite my lips so hard the skin bursts as I try not to cry.

No job, no matter what pay, is worth this.

****

**BAZ**

It’s hard not to dribble porridge down my chin when I have a clear view of Snow’s defined pectorals as he bends over, the collar of his flannel shirt dipping.

It’s hard to contain _anything_ with Snow.

He comes in most mornings wearing half the country side; a leaf in his hair, specks of muddy water spattered on the bottom of his trouser legs. A twig stuck in his ridiculous scarves. He’s a lovely sight to see, with apples in his cheeks and blue eyes bright from the spring air.

I bless rainy days, because when Snow bends over to undo his muddy boots, his dark denim jeans strain ridiculously over his thighs. It’s _fabulous_.

It’s so very hard to hate him.

Not when he walks in every morning through that infernal door and calls out a cheerful ‘good morning’, announcing his arrival.

Not when he hums as he’s cooking scrambled egg or whistles as he pours tea.

Not when he blusters and fumbles when he does my leg and arm exercises. His cheeks go a lovely shade of red and he worries his bottom lip between him teeth. And swallows every time I look at him (he has the longest, showiest swallow. It’s a whole scene).

I don’t hate him, even though for the first few weeks I tried very hard to. He’s far too likeable and Niall loves him. He’s so full of life, and he’s so bloody stubborn in his persistent quests to engage with me.

But that’s what turns my stomach.

What’s the point in letting him in? He’s not here to be my friend. He’s not here to be my _anything_ to me other than the person who spoon-feeds me and makes me tea, and makes sure I haven’t tried to off myself. (Daphne is terrified of that, but I don’t understand how she thinks I could possibly pull that off. Last time I checked, paralysed people can’t fucking _move_ )(Bless her for caring though…).

It’s just easier, to be awful to him. It’s easier that than letting him in when he’s only here for the pay. He’s only here, because of me. Not to be my friend.

He’s no older than me. He can do things that I should be able to do for myself. And the thought sickens me.

So I use that to fuel my words, my ‘hatred’ of Snow. If it’s what will keep him from trying to open me up, keep him at arms length, keep him _away_ , it’s what I’ll do.

It’ll be once less person who’ll miss me when I’m gone.

* * *


	6. So who've you been calling 'Baby'?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picture frames; wood splintered and glass shattered, litter the floor, some toppled over on top of the armoire and some barely intact scattered around the wheels of Baz’s chair.
> 
> Baz.
> 
> He’s in the middle of it, hair falling in a dark curtain along his jaw, his chest heaving. When he notices my presence, his eyes dart up to look at me.
> 
> He’s crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time coming, but here we are. Enjoy!
> 
> Thank you to all the comments so far and kudos, they mean a lot!
> 
> IMPORTANT: Just to recap, when Simon says that Baz is 'gone', he means that Baz is physically there, but his mind is so far away that his body may as well not be there. It'll make sense at the end of the chapter.

**SIMON**

There’s a silver Mercedes parked outside the mansion when I arrive one cold Friday morning. A two-thousand and nineteen Ben, Class A, worth more than my flat alone.

I haven’t seen it before, the car.

At first I think it’s a new buy for Baz, something flashy and big and untouchable to encourage him to get out more (though now that I think about it, that sounds like a shit idea. How shitty with it be to sit in a flashy car bought for you that you can’t even drive?)

A flighty feeling blooms in my stomach, akin to a sickly dread when I notice Daphne standing by one of the ancient pillars (the Pitch mansion has been around for centuries, apparently. Would you believe that they open parts of the mansion during summer and Christmas months to the public to show of preserved artifacts and rooms?)

Her hands are clasped delicately in front of her. Her eyes don’t leave me as I approach, and for a terrifying few seconds I think I’m late (I’m not- a quick glance to my shitty Argos watch tells me it’s not even nine yet)

She smiles tightly when I’m a few paces from her. “Simon,” she says, tone heavy as lead. She's visibly ill at ease..

I nod and return her smile tightly, searching her face.

“’Lo Daphne. Sorry, s’everything alright?”

A sigh, tired and carrying the weight of the world leaves her lips as she drops her gaze.

“Basil has… visitors,” she says with an air of uncertainty, her words merging to sound like more of a question than a statement.

“I think for the duration of their visit, perhaps you could make yourself scarce? Malcolm would appreciate if you help bring logs from the storage through to the front room for the time being…” she trails off, as if she’s unsure how to continue, as if she’s unsure of what she’s asking me herself.

I shrug and give her my best smile. “Sure,” I say.

She smiles, a little brighter at me this time, and places a dainty hand lightly on my shoulder. Her small fingers barely curl around the bulk of it.

“Thank you, Simon.” she says, giving it a squeeze.

We part ways, her going through the large main doors of the mansion, me across the cobblestone driveway to the old barn converted into a sort of garage with a storage room. I let my mind drift, eyeing the silver Merc warily as I trod heavily past it.

As far as I know, Baz has refused visitors for a long time. It hasn’t exactly been said to me directly, but it’s been implied by Niall.

Baz was shut up for a long time, and by the time he began to come back into himself and piece together whatever remained of the person he was, he had pushed everyone away.

No one wanted to be around to unload their pity that was rejected by the charity case. No one wanted to be around the bitter man that once thrived. No one knew what to do. No one knew how to act.

So everyone stayed away, at arms length. It was ‘what Baz wanted’, they’d concluded, and Baz retired further and further into himself each passing hour, day, month and now, years.

It makes me angry to think about, that people gave up on him as quickly as Baz gave up on himself.

I grip the steel handle of the heavy wooden door of the storage room (even it’s fucking fancy on the inside, despite only storing fucking wood). I can’t help but think this is odd…

Baz’s coldness that repels people, Daphne’s worry, visitors I haven’t heard of before.

I pull open the door, giving the silver Merc one last distrustful scowl.

**BAZ**

He’s standing there, worlds and stolen lifetimes away from me, with his gaze lowered and lips twisted into an uneasy grimace.

He’s standing there, with his dark hair and fair skin, unblemished and perfect, not looking at me.

He’s standing there, one hand shoved into the pocket of his designer jeans, the other gently resting on the doorframe.

He’s standing there, with a silver band wrapped around his long ring finger, the light of the kitchen reflecting off it with such a vicious glare it nearly hurts to look at it directly. It taunts me, leers at me. I stare at it anyway. 

Tobias shifts on his feet, looking at the floor somewhere by the wheels of my chair.

“There was never going to be easy way of telling you about it, B,” he says in an unwavering tone. “I’m sorry it couldn’t be you. I’m…I’m just sorry.”

He lifts his gaze, looking at me in the eyes at last. Green eyes that used to look at me with adoration, with value, with lust and all the love in the world. Now he looks at me with nothing but pity.

His eyes are strangers to me now.

His gaze searches mine, looking for my reply. His silver band gleams. A silver band given to him by _someone_ else.

He used to be _mine_.

He swallows, running his ring adorned hand through dark locks. Hair I used to run my own hand through. Hair someone else now touches.

“Say something," he pleads in an urgent whisper, searching my face for a reaction. Something to give away how much I’m _breaking_ all over again on the inside.

I clear my throat. I look at him and school my face into impassiveness. I curl my lips mechanically back into a smile, and I know it must look hideously fake because he shivers, his pretty face creasing in a wince.

“ _Congratulations_.” I drawl, voice empty.

There’s silence for a few heartbeats. His still standing there, in my space, but he may as well be a hundred miles away. Untouchable. Unreachable. Taken.

He’s not mine.

He used to be mine.

He’s gone.

“Why him,” I whisper. “Why Lamb?”

He sighs, and anger boils in me. He sighs like he’s tired, as if my presence alone is draining him. As if he knows what tired fucking feels like.

No one knows what tired feels like more than me. Tired of existing. Tired of being, of breathing, of pining, of dying, all over again every single day I wake up, _immobile_.

“He was there… when everything got bad. He was good support at first, and then- it- it just became more. He helped me through it all.” he explains haltingly. He drops his gaze from mine, inspecting the floor Snow vacuumed last Thursday.

Everything in me, any nerve still alive, everything that still manages to keep my body somehow functioning, _boils_.

“Helped you through _it_? Helped _you_ , through _my_ paralysis?!” I roar, my voice cracking in an ugly croak. “Do you know how it felt? How it still _fucking_ feels?”

He stares at me, as if I’m a stranger, with tears, large and pretty rolling down his lovely cheeks. He looks at me like he doesn’t know who I am.

I don’t even know who I am, anymore.

“It was hard for me too, B, watching you go through it. Did you ever think about that?” he retorts, his tone sharp and sour as citrus, and I want to die.

I want _him_ gone.

I want _this_ to be gone.

 _I_ want to _be_ gone.

He blinks those green eyes, some of the fire that was beginning to brew in them dissipating, and he looks dazed. He shakes his head and steps forward, a hand- _the_ fucking hand with the fucking ring adorning it- raised as if he was about to make a move to touch me.

I make my chair move back, and he stops abruptly, jerkily, my backward motion telling him all he needs to know.

He drops his hand, and he looks so dejected I almost feel sorry for him.

But then I see Lamb, fucking _Lamb_ with his sharp teeth and wandering hands and hungry eyes standing behind him, his lips rested upon Tobias’ neck, calling him ‘darling’, ‘love’, ‘ _baby’_ , and it cancels out that pity.

And I hate him. So much.

I hate him so much I think it’s going to consume me.

“Congratulations.” I whisper. Finality.

A goodbye.

He looks at me one more time, and the last of the boy I knew is gone. He’s no longer mine.

He turns, one foot stepping back towards the door, the other still facing me. He sniffs, shoving one hand into his pocket of his leather jacket, and pulls out an envelope. He places it gingerly on the armoire of pictures, pictures of us and our past love that I’ve kept close to my heart. They jeer at me now.

He doesn’t falter, doesn’t spare them a glance.

“Come,” he says. “Please, if you want… please come to it.” I don’t need to ask what it’s an invite for.

Bile rises to the back of my throat, forming the word _wedding_ in my mouth, before I swallow it back down again, refusing to lose the last shreds of dignity that I still have by projectile vomiting all over my ex-lover.

A wedding of the boy I _loved_ , walking down the isle with a man I _hate_. I want to vomit. I think I will vomit, if he stays standing in this room for much longer, his cologne lingering on everything and suffocating me.

He leaves, and I hear voices down the hall. But they bleed into nothing, into nonsense.

Numbness, that I should be accustomed to by now, settles over me, but it still manages to take my breath away.

**SIMON**

I think Daphne intended for the little job to take up more time than it really did. Or maybe she didn’t, and I’m just a good worker. Whichever it was, I still found myself lurking in the doorway by the coat rack in Baz’s place (his private sector of the mansion, I mean, but it’s kinda easier to call it his place. It is, after all, _his_ place).

I’m lurking there now, knowing that I’m too early to be there as Baz’s visitor is still with him, and knowing that the conversation I could hear wasn’t for me. I can’t hear exactly what they’re saying, but it sounds heated in a very hushed way.

It sounds like something precious and catastrophic, all at once, and I can’t decide whether me being there is a good thing should I need to intervene, or a bad thing in case Baz sees me quite visibly spying, and ultimately unleashes his furious wrath upon me later.

We haven’t spoken, me and him, since that morning he made me feel like complete and utter dried up shite. Apart from saying hello every morning (like a normal, decent person), and asking if he needs anything, and announcing my departure, we don’t speak.

He doesn’t want to, and there’s nothing I can do to change that. He still looks at me like I’m the bane of his existence, and at this stage I’m starting to believe that I am.

He occupies every one of my thoughts; at home in my flat, I’ll compare my sweatshirt to one of his fancier ones, or the frizziness of my hair to his sleakness, or his eyes to every shade of grey the sky adorns.

I think of him when Agatha is show-jumping, imagining him along the sidelines with the right colour of suit to wear to each event and his hair elegantly swept back, his skin finally thriving in all its copper glory in the sun. I think burgundy would look best on him, lovely against his skin.

I think of him when Penny complains about Shakespeare, and think of all his books lining the walls of his room, and how well the pair of them would get on from dissecting all of Shakespeare’s literature alone, line by line, soliloquy by soliloquy.

It’s a proper “Shall I compare thee” fiasco in my fucking head, 24/7.

Someone mumbles something, I think it’s the visitor, and then the glazed sliding door opens, a young man stepping out and shutting it half way.

He’s good looking, in a very cover-boy type of way, with the same type of prettiness as Baz- but in a more _diluted_ way. I recognize him from somewhere, but I can’t place where.

He startles when he sees me, his face shocked for a moment, before smiling weakly and approaches me. Not to be friendly, only because the door is behind me.

“Hello.” I say politely, still trying to place where I’ve seen him before. He jumps slightly again, but recovers and holds out a smooth, unblemished hand after a moment.

“Hi,” he replies neutrally, albeit tiredly. “Tobias,” he introduces himself, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards somewhat mechanically.

Then it clicks; this is the same boy in the many photographs standing on the dresser in Baz’s room; the same boy with his arm around his shoulder and shooting happy smiles and gooey eyes at Baz.

Something strange rolls in my stomach. I can’t quite place the emotion, so I just shrug it off for now.

I take his hand.

“Simon.” I reply. “I’m Baz’s carer,” I add, feeling the need to address myself and my business here.

He nods, dark hair swaying with the movement in a slow-motion wave. I’m dead jealous of it. He’s like a proper animated prince charming, so he is, something out of a wishy-washy fairy tale.

Tobias shoves his hands in his pockets, casting his eyes to the side in the direction of Baz’s room. “Look after him,” he whispers quietly.

“Some people, no matter how much you love them, just won’t let you help them.”

He shifts on his feet, adding “I did try, truly I did.” I notice that his accent, though posh and definitely English, is tinted with a French touch, making it sound pretty. As if he isn’t good looking enough already, his voice has to be just as nice as well.

Tobias continues, but more so in a way like he’s trying to justify himself, to himself, “We could’ve been together. I think. But when people push you away… I guess it’s just not meant to be.”

His gaze meets my eyes again, and he smiles weakly, sadly. “Take care of him, Simon.” he says, before stepping around me and closing the door after him.

…I’ve only two heartbeats to breathe and gather my thoughts before the sound of glass shattering on the ground assaults my ears and makes the hairs on my neck stand on end.

Cursing, I scurry into Baz’s room, all sorts of scenarios painted in my head of what could await me behind the door.

What I do see is not what I expected.

Picture frames; wood splintered and glass shattered, litter the floor, some toppled over on top of the armoire and some barely intact scattered around the wheels of Baz’s chair.

 _Baz_.

He’s in the middle of it, hair falling in a dark curtain along his jaw, his chest heaving. When he notices my presence, his eyes dart up to look at me.

He’s crying.

His shoulders shake, his chest rises up and down heavily, exhaling angry sighs and sobs. Tears, large and wet stream down his face.

He looks so pitiful, so broken, so, so _sad_ , that I’d do anything, almost _anything_ to have him sneering and hurling abuse at me instead.

Anything to stop him from looking at me with haunted eyes like that.

I react on instinct and rush to his side, crouching to his level. I throw an arm around him and pull him into my chest. This only makes him sob harder.

I know that if he could move, his fists would be clenched right now, possibly grabbing fistfuls of my cheap Primark sweater as he cried. Or he would be pacing the room and throwing things would such force glass would ricochet in every possible direction.

If Baz could move, he wouldn't be here at all.

But he can't.

“It’s okay,” I whisper fiercely. “It’s okay. Please don’t cry Baz.”

I look around the floor, sharp glass precariously close to the rubber of the wheels of Baz’s chair.

“Just whatever you do don’t move- I mean- fuck I know you can’t but I don’t- I don’t know what I’ll do if you pop a tire. It’s- It’s-”

Then I see it; a white envelope addressed to Baz, with “ _Wedding_ ” screaming out to me in bold, cursive font.

In that moment I _hate_ the French accented pretty boy that just left the room, with every fiber of my being.

In that moment I hate every bad thing thats ever happened to Baz.

In that moment, I’d rather see him ‘gone’, than see him _breaking_ in my arms like this.

* * *


End file.
